


Rulers of the World

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Held der Gladiatoren (2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Are the victors truly the rulers of the world, or are they just fooling themselves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rulers of the World

It was raining when they arrived: a dull, relentless drizzle that flattened the sky and leached the colours from the landscape. Not for the first time, Reuben wondered if this land ever saw the true touch of the sun. In all his years in enforced exile, he had never seen evidence of it; and so despite the pointing fingers and long looks, he never ventured out-of-doors without several layers of clothing.

He had been sent to the markets to purchase a fresh supply of writing materials, but discovered that the expected delivery was late. The trader had settled himself against the boards of his stall, ready to complain about the slow traffic on the Rhine and how injurious it was to business.

Standing out in the cold, Reuben had felt his feet grow wet as the moisture seeped up from the cobbles and into the thin leather of his sandals. He had nodded in agreement to the trader's tales, and then slipped away when another customer approached.

Now he stood shivering in the lee side of the warehouses that lined the edge of the harbour, watching the complicated process of tying-up the ships. Passengers and cargo were offloaded, and slaves and freedmen ran forwards to claim various bundles. Shouts and curses broke the endless wash of rain, and there was a thump as one of the crews shipped their oars. A scuffle broke out over a bale of silk that had fallen into a puddle, and somebody let slip a donkey, which trotted away, flicking its ears.

Reuben moved forwards to catch the animal, grasping its halter with a wince of disgust. The donkey and its tether were damp, dirty, and smelly. He was about to let go when he heard the clink of armour from the bundled saddlebags. It was a sound he had heard too often in the past, in a different world, although these days it did not affect him as much as it once had.

Curiously, he put out a hand and touched the closest of the bags. The sacking was coarse and wet, but from within came the clatter of arms. Reuben recognised familiar outlines from the jumble of shapes: a rectangular shield, then a circular shield with a heavy boss placed at its centre. As the donkey twitched closer, the smell from the sack struck at him – damp wood and boiled leather, a stench that he always associated with violent death.

Reuben moved back to the head of the donkey, wiping his hand down his loose robes as he did so. He peered around the laden beast and wondered which of the ships might have carried the parchment and ink his master requested. It would be sensible for him to approach the harbour-master, but the man was a lout and had made it clear several times in the past that he wanted no truck with slaves of heathen origin.

Surely he had wasted his time here. Annoyed at his timidity, Reuben looked for another slave that he might be able to pass the donkey to. He began to pick his way across the slippery cobbles towards a likely candidate, and then a hand grasped his shoulder hard.

Startled, Reuben swung about and bumped into the donkey, which sidestepped and came to a sudden halt, its load shifting and clunking. Backed against damp hide, he looked down at the hand that had slipped from his shoulder to grasp a sizeable portion of the neck of his robe.

It was calloused and rough, deeply tanned. The flesh between the curve of thumb and forefinger was almost yellowed from manual labour, and Reuben knew that this was no farmer or sailor, but a man whose field of expertise was something quite different.

He let his gaze travel down to the thick leather cuff around the man's wrist, past a flexed bicep and then up to see the expression on his face. Watchful, it was; wary but with a cynicism that suggested that caution had come to him in later years. He was dark, with a short, trimmed beard that merely accentuated the lines of his face.

"You have our donkey," he said at last.

Reuben nodded. "It wandered off. I thought to take care of it."

"Then – thank you, friend." The last word was said in such a way that Reuben doubted that this man had many friends. Certainly he would never keep any if he insisted on being so rude.

The man let go of Reuben's robe and took hold of the donkey instead, shortening the tether as the animal tried to jerk away again.

"The noise from the harbour frightens the poor beast," Reuben said helpfully.

"Do you not have tasks to do?"

"Only one, and it can wait."

The man gave him a look of disbelief, as if he suspected Reuben of malingering. Why anybody would hang around the port in his spare time was beyond Reuben; he preferred to sit in his master's courtyard and read through scrolls, a cup of watered wine at his elbow.

"I noticed what was inside your saddlebags," he tried again. "Shields! Wooden ones, though – even the bosses. And, I dare say, there might be the odd gladius within, too."

"There might be."

"You are hardly here to relieve the legion!"

The man grunted, not bothering to reply, and took firmer hold of the donkey.

Reuben was not disconcerted by the lack of response. "You are gladiators, yes? I know your kind. I can smell you from a mile off." He nodded towards the saddlebags. "Death is in those bags."

The man turned his head, his expression curious. "I used to be a gladiator, once. Now I train them. What you smell with that prodigious nose of yours is not death, but your own fear. Perhaps you've soiled yourself, friend."

Reuben sniffed before he could stop himself, and felt a moment's annoyance when he saw a flash of amusement pass over the features of the ex-gladiator. Quickly he changed the subject, saying, "I have heard of no gladiatorial combats advertised here, and my master is one of the leading citizens of Mogontiacum. He would surely know of such things some time in advance."

The trainer gave an exasperated sigh. "We are bound for Augusta Treverorum. It has been a long trip, and the miles grow heavier the closer we get to our destination."

Reuben wrinkled his forehead as he tried to work out the distance between the two cities. "It is not far, if you take the Mosel."

The trainer laughed without humour. "And spend another week shipboard? I don't think so. My job is to train gladiators, not mollycoddle mewling babes. From here, we walk to the city of the Treveri."

They watched as a group of men and women straggled from one of the ships. Several were staring around avidly, while others affected a display of boredom. Reuben noted the black faces amongst the crowd, and thought they must be slaves from Mauretania or some other godforsaken part of the empire. A small, wiry man in a dirty tunic snatched a handful of fruit from a grocer's cart when he believed nobody was looking. He crammed most of it into his mouth, splattering juice down his chest in his greed, and then as another slave turned to look at him, the thief offered out the remainder of the crushed fruit.

"Melampus the Thracian," the trainer said dryly. "I only hope he's as fierce in his fighting as he is in his appetite."

A small scuffle began as the slaves tried to snatch the fruit from Melampus. The trainer made an irritated noise and handed the donkey back to Reuben, saying, "Since you have nothing better to do…"

Startled, he held the tether and watched as the trainer strode back to the group of slaves. Four soldiers in cheap-looking armour poked and prodded at the group with the end of their spears, and Reuben realised that they must be mercenaries, hired to protect the consignment. He could think of no reason why the soldiers of the Legio XXII Primigenia would bother guarding a ragtag collection of slaves bound for the arena.

The trainer moved quickly and with economy, waving away the mercenaries and shouting at the slaves. The group quietened, and then shuffled themselves into formation. Reuben was reluctantly impressed as they began to march, a mercenary at each corner of their formation. The trainer led the way, turning back only long enough to check that his orders were being followed. Reuben stepped forwards, holding out the tether, then realised that the trainer would not take it for fear of looking ridiculous in front of the slaves. At a loss, he tagged onto the back of the group and led the donkey behind him.

"Any food on that thing, friend?" came the hopeful voice of the Thracian.

"None at all," Reuben said. "Not unless you want to chew on boiled leather."

"That's precisely what we've been eating on the whole of this trip so far," Melampus complained. "Wish I'd stayed in Puteoli. The weather's better, too. Not like this foul place. Hardly any wonder that nobody wants to come here."

"There's one place worse," said his companion, the man who'd been offered the pulp of fruit after Melampus had failed to eat it all in one mouthful.

"Oh yeah? And where's that?" the Thracian asked, jogging his companion with his elbow. "You can't tell me it's Mauretania. Ask Berenike and she'll tell you it's better than Rome."

Reuben walked a little faster in order to keep up with both the group and the conversation.

"It's not Mauretania," said the other slave. "It's Britannia."

Melampus whistled and nodded his head slowly. "I heard it was a place overrun by savages that paint themselves blue. Blue! I ask you, what's the point in that? They want to build a wall or something to keep decent folk safe."

"It didn't help here, did it?"

Reuben cleared his throat, and the two men broke step for a moment to look back at him. The Thracian's looks betrayed his origins, and despite the amount of food that the trainer said this man consumed, he was still skinny and runtish in appearance. His friend was quite the opposite: tall and well-built, with dark blond hair and a determined set to his jaw that belied the distant, dreaming expression of his eyes.

"The _limes_ is not a wall," Reuben said, flustered by the sudden attention. "And we have no need of walls to keep ourselves safe from the barbarian hordes."

The blond man snorted in contempt. "'We'? You are not Roman. In fact, you are probably one of the barbarian hordes you now claim to fear!"

He had abandoned the formation and taken a menacing step towards Reuben before Melampus tugged at his arm. "Leave him be, Germanus, or those bloody soldiers will make examples of us."

Reuben gave a nervous smile as Germanus allowed himself to rejoin the group. "I meant no offence. How was I to know you were a barbarian? Most of them seem quite content with the _pax Romana_. It has benefited trade greatly. That is what the _limes_ is for – to control trade."

"I know what they say it is for," Germanus said shortly as they continued to walk. "I also know what it is _really_ for. And there my knowledge and your opinions part company."

"Ah, does it really matter?" Melampus asked, already bored with the debate. "Politics, gold, greed… Look, when Alexander the Great conquered the world, he didn't bother with no _pax Romana -_"

"That's because he was Greek," Germanus said in a tone that suggested that this was an old argument.

"He was not! He was Macedonian. There's a difference."

"Macedonians are greedier than Greeks. But not as greedy as Thracians -"

A small flurry of light punches was exchanged before conversation resumed.

"What I meant was, that when Alexander died, the empire collapsed, too. Because there was no _pax Romana_. So everybody carried on doing what they were doing before, and that didn't really suit the empire. They could have built lots of walls, but the outcome would have been the same."

"You are the last person I'd have expected to be a champion of the establishment," Germanus grumbled. "Especially as you get the view right from the very bottom."

Reuben interrupted: "Why _are_ you a slave? You have as much right to citizenship as the Italians. There is no need for you to reduce yourself in this way."

Melampus flashed him a grin. "I sold myself into slavery as a gladiator so as to make my fortune."

"That's a lie," Germanus said mildly. "You were arrested for stealing and you thought this was a better option than the mines at Lavrion."

"And you?" Reuben asked hurriedly, before the two men could start fighting again. "You have returned to your homeland, rather than stay in Puteoli?"

Germanus turned around, almost amused by the question. "I hardly had any choice in the matter."

"I'd have stayed in Puteoli," muttered Melampus.

"You would." Germanus shook his head, his hair tumbling into his eyes. "When I was taken from my village, I thought they were going to kill me. But they let me live. And so now I have come home to die."

Melampus snorted. "You have a flair for the dramatic. We might make a gladiator out of you yet."

Germanus ignored his friend, instead eyeing Reuben. "You, I think, must know what I mean. You are not one of them."

Reuben inclined his head, knowing he was being inspected. He wondered how he appeared to this outsider: not just a faceless embodiment of his master's household, but a neat, prim man of middling age, with black hair curled tight, dusted with grey; his olive skin now worn sallow from years of service in Germania Superior.

"You're a Jew," Germanus said at length. "I've heard about your kind. How, under Nero, hundreds of your people were used as human torches to light the pathways of the Golden House because they were responsible for the Great Fire."

Reuben flushed red with anger. "That is a falsehood. We did not begin the fire! Everybody knows it was the emperor himself who was responsible for that. He was helped by the Christians, not by us."

Melampus paid attention again. "I thought it was the same thing: Jews, Christians, Mithraists. All those religions with one god, it's confusing."

"It's not the same thing at all!" Reuben hissed, shifting closer in case the guards should overhear.

The Thracian picked at his teeth. "It is to me."

"No, they are different," Germanus said, giving Reuben another curious look. "There was a Christian in the cells at Puteoli. I remember him. He said that God had died for mankind that we might be free."

"See? A god that dies. What use is that to anyone?" Melampus said.

"He rises again," Germanus said patiently.

"Like Attis and Adonis?" Melampus asked. "That makes more sense, then. You should have said so in the first place."

Reuben hauled at the donkey as it tried to wander in another direction. His sandals slipped on the cobbles, and he was forced to stand still while he coaxed the animal into following him again. He hurried after the slaves, splashing through the puddles that had formed where the stones had cracked beneath the weight of carts and wagons. The donkey brayed and then trotted forwards, so that Reuben was forced to drag at its mouth lest it trample into the marching slaves. Eventually he caught up with the column, and they returned to their conversation.

"What do you know, my German friend? Amongst my people there is the belief that out of Judaea will come the rulers of the world. Then we shall have freedom: the freedom that was promised to Moses when God led his people out of Egypt; the freedom that was assured when Abraham doubted."

"And yet your people remain enslaved," Germanus said. "Nobody remains enslaved by choice."

"Do they not?" Melampus wondered, squinting up at the sky as it began to lighten. "If my life were easy, if I had money and employment and a home and family, then I would not care if I were free or not."

"The Christ was from Judaea, wasn't he?" Germanus asked.

Reuben nodded. "But we do not believe him to be one of the rulers foretold by our prophets."

"How could he be, when he died without relieving the Jews of their oppression?" Germanus said, his tone innocent even if his expression was not. "A god who dies in slavery is not a god."

"Quite so," Reuben agreed, uncertain as to what Germanus meant.

"A god who dies is not a god at all - we have already established that," Melampus said. "Even if he does come back to life afterwards, it's not the point."

"How long have you been here?" Germanus asked, silencing Melampus' mutterings. "You did not sell yourself to make your fortune, surely."

Reuben hesitated, pretending to fiddle with a knot of the donkey's tether. "I was spared, as you were, when the Romans occupied my city. I have been here for twelve years. I was a historian; now I am a scribe."

Melampus yawned. "Romans like such things. I heard that Vespasian had a pet Jewish historian, too. It must be the fashion. Lucky for you, though."

"Josephus is his name," Reuben said, showing his teeth in an attempt at a smile. "And yes, I was lucky. The rest of my family were slaughtered, and elsewhere my people committed suicide to avoid capture. Yes, indeed, I was the lucky one."

"Hey, friend, you were the one standing up for the Romans a moment ago!" Melampus said, alarmed. "What's that saying you have – turn the other cheek? I don't think I'd be so keen to forgive and forget if my family were all butchered."

"That's a Christian saying," Reuben said quickly. "And I have said nothing of forgiveness. Neither will I ever forget. How can I, when I am all that is left of my family? The greatest shame for us is to die without issue, to have no heir to remember past deeds by. I stay alive only because I must, for the sake of my blood."

Germanus' gaze wandered ahead to where a slender woman with long blonde hair walked in the group, her arms swinging in a manner that made a mockery of the soldier swaggering alongside her.

"I agree," he said. "Family is sometimes more important. Even more important than freedom. Without them, there is nothing worth fighting for."

Reuben nodded, an action that brought Germanus' attention back to him. "You see my predicament. I have nothing worth fighting for, no need to win my freedom for the sake of my family; and yet I must survive enslaved for the very same reason."

Melampus flapped a hand carelessly. "You might yet be freed. That Josephus was set free, and now he lives in Rome and has great riches. You might not get the money, but you could become a freedman."

"A freedman is still a slave," Reuben said wearily. "A bondsman to his master. No, I can never be free again. There is no such thing for me now, not even as a distant dream."

"Suit yourself," Melampus said with a shrug. "I am a slave, and I still dream."

"Your dreams are simple, of wealth and women and wine," Germanus said with a smile.

Melampus grinned back. "There's nothing wrong with that. I'll leave the lofty ideals to you."

They were approaching the city gate, and so Reuben left them there, handing the donkey to Melampus and watching the column of slaves march through the archway and out onto the road that led away from Mogontiacum. Before they went, Germanus clasped Reuben's hand briefly, as an equal, as men who were not enslaved, but free.

"Consider," he said softly, "for all their might, the Romans are not free, either. They are tied to enforcing the _pax Romana_. We are in good company. The rulers of our world are slaves."

Reuben stood on the wet cobbles and watched them go, the warmth of Germanus' hand in his lingering despite the persistent drizzle. When he could no longer see them, he shook his head and roused himself, tucked his hand into the folds of his cloak, and went about his business.


End file.
